rustle | exo: dare you to move (2/5)

"My two best friends show up hungover on my birthday. On time." Jongdae takes a deep breath, but the smile on his lips hasn't faded yet. "This is gonna be good."

Joonmyun looks normal, for the most part – neatly combed hair, white polo rolled up to his elbow, light jeans. Minseok has seen this before, in one of those airport pictures floating around online. The wry smile and bloodshot eyes, not so much. Joonmyun was wearing sunglasses then, and beside Baekhyun who was, as always, wearing a baggy black shirt and jeans, he looked like a star. Someone from the media asked if he was a new member of the group, if EXO was going to be a project band, how do the members feel about this? The fans answered for him – he's EXO's manager, but he looks so fine he'd give Baekhyun a run for his money.

Joonmyun's wearing sunglasses today for an entirely different reason. "Ssh. Shut up. Your voice is making my head throb," he mumbles. Jongdae cocks an eyebrow, lips poised to say something, but Joonmyun is quick to give Jongdae a hug. "I got myself drunk last night just for you! Because you keep telling me I don't drink anymore!"

"We've changed for you, bro," Minseok adds. He clasps a hand on Jongdae's shoulders and continues, "For the better."

"You two are the worst," Jongdae groans.

"And you, my dear friend, are the best," Joonmyun says without missing a beat. To the waiter, he says, "Three orders of samgyupsal, please. And... Chilsung cider. Three orders."

"Really laying off the alcohol, huh? Is the hangover that bad?"

Minseok heaves a sigh. "It's not the hangover, really. It's more of–"

What happened last night, abusing his throat by regaling tales of the past to people he hasn't gone out with a long while. The memory of the fleeting warmth whenever his knuckles brush against Kyungsoo's. Kyungsoo leaning in too close, and then leaning back. Walking five long blocks from COEX to his house while lugging around alcohol in his body, while fighting the alcohol messing up his mind.

Kyungsoo's breath, hot and warm, against his nape as Minseok fumbled with his keys in an attempt to open the door to his flat. The sinking sensation in his stomach everytime he remembers the moment, the night, the touch.

"More of old age," Minseok finishes. "When was the last time we drunk our asses off and went home past midnight?"

"Before we hit thirty," Joonmyun and Jongdae reply in chorus. They look at each other in the eye and elbow each other in their side. "Jinx!"

Having samgyupsal without soju to help the meat go down their throats is weird, a bit of a challenge when Jongdae does nothing but make lame attempts at making them laugh. The worst part is Joonmyun jumping on the bandwagon and brandishing his own set of jokes at them, half-expecting the two to laugh and half-expecting them to just give him a pointed stare. 70% of the time, it's the former, and by the time they finish everything they've ordered, the dull ache at the back of Minseok's head is already gone.

"You guys up for coffee?" Joonmyun asks once they've settled the bill. Normally, Joonmyun would be the one pulling out his card, whispering to the group, it's on me, but Jongdae beats Joonmyun to it and just tells him, coffee's on you; dessert's on Minseok-hyung. "EXO's going to Thailand in three days and then Japan after that so–"

"So we'll see more of your airport fashion," Jongdae teases. He winks at Joonmyun when Joonmyun growls at him – a tiny growl much like that of a cub's. Not intimidating at all. "You ready for the updates, hyung?"

"I'll be at the airport," Minseok adds, chuckling. "And I'll be zooming in on oppa's face so–"

"Buy your own coffee! I am terminating this friendship!"

And yet here they are, in Club Espresso, north of the river and miles away from where they usually stay. Together for the first time in months. Some things aren't as easy as breathing or walking or anything they have grown accustomed to. Reuniting with old friends is tough. The sorry for always missing out and hardly keeping in touch talk had been dramatic, but Joonmyun, for all of his being a crybaby, didn't even shed a tear. So some things can both change and stay the same. Keeping a balance between the two isn't easy. Resisting the slide of Joonmyun's fingers between Minseok's own under the table isn't, either.

"Cake?" Minseok asks, turning to Jongdae for an affirmation.

"Cake," Joonmyun replies. He rubs slow circles on Minseok's skin. Minseok keeps a straight face and doesn't shiver.

☄

Joonmyun excuses himself earlier than expected. The company called, asking him to report to the office because Baekhyun's sick. He won't be able to fly out. Either the others continue with the fanmeet or we push it back. "And let's be honest – half of the fans are there for him. He knows that. Everyone knows that," Joonmyun whispers into the receiver long after he's put down his phone. "Of course, they don't want to hear that from me. So I won't say it."

"You just did, perfect manager," Jongdae says. He clasps his hands on Joonmyun's shoulders and gives them a light squeeze. "Go get 'em, hyung. But let us know if they're not flying out, okay? Because we'll be there. For Baekhyunnie-oppa–"

"Shut up," Joonmyun groans.

Minseok casts a glance at Jongdae, then rests one hand on Joonmyun's shoulder. "Wouldn't want to bring my long lenses if Baekhyunnie-oppa isn't there. The lenses are too heavy–"

"I'm really, really ending this friendship–" Joonmyun picks up his bags, hands the one with the card that says 'happy birthday, Jongdae!' to the celebrant. "–and never seeing you two again–"

"The next thing we know, you're already a star, hyung!"

"Don't be a stranger!"

Joonmyun sticks up his middle finger at them just a little before walking through the door. In five seconds flat, he's out of the coffee shop.

"How long 'til we see him again?"

Minseok shrugs. "Half a year? More?" Jongdae moves closer, leans his head on Minseok's shoulder. This – this is familiar. He's no stranger to this. Jongdae's never too hot; at worst, he's at boiling point, but even then the warmth is just enough. Jongdae has a presence soothing enough to loosen the knots in Minseok's chest that he never knew he had. "He was always a bit… you know, elsewhere."

"Wasn't that you?" Jongdae asks, a lilt in his tone. Minseok tilts his head, leans back, meets Jongdae in the eye. "Back in high school, at least. You were in senior year then, and I–"

"Didn't know how to not meddle in my adult business." Minseok reaches up with his hand and ruffles Jongdae's hair. "I'm here now. Just here."

Five seconds of silence, and then Jongdae's sitting up, spine straightening. "Better get a move on. I don't trust Sehun with the machines."

More like, I don't trust what you're saying, hyung. Minseok hears it in the gaps between the syllables, in the hitch in Jongdae's breathing. This part of familiarity he wishes he were a stranger to.

They walk to the car park, knuckles brushing. In the afternoon heat, Minseok winces at every contact, like there's a violent surge of lightning in his veins, his roots, his blood. It feels different with coffee in his system instead of alcohol, without the feeling of regrets and wrong decisions swirling in his head. Sunlight exposes you to a lot of things, little realities – the three centimeters between Minseok and Jongdae, eight inches between their feet. Jongdae intending to go back to Gangnam, and him planning to go to Yeouido for a trip he's long put off.

"Visiting her today?" Jongdae asks halfway through the walk.

Minseok looks to his side and takes a deep breath. "Always. Most Saturdays. Sunday, too, if I can." He rubs the tip of his nose. "First few years, at least. But I do drop by from time to time."

Jongdae narrows his eyes at him. "Seriously. You don't even have to tell her a story." Jongdae steps to his side, narrowly missing a big rock. "She'll be happy to see you."

Minseok snorts. "She wasn't when she woke up. First time it happened, she– You know what happened then." He takes a deep breath, then feels for his keys in his pocket. When he feels an object twice the size of his thumb brush against his skin, he turns to Jongdae and says, "I don't know. We'll see. I'll try to… come closer."

Jongdae stops short in unlocking the doors of his car. "You want me to come with you?"

Tempting, Minseok wants to say, but this isn't something you drag your friends into. It's a matter he has to resolve with himself first, and then with his memories. Once everything's ironed out, he can bring Jongdae to the facility. Maybe even let Jongdae coax Minyoung out of her room, play with people who aren't strangers but aren't the ones she sees on a daily basis. Jongdae's always been better at dealing with people; Minseok's special skill is putting up with them.

"Nah, I'm good." He twirls his keys in his index finger. "Text me when you get back. Don't kill Sehun."

"The machine's would've beaten me to it," Jongdae kids. His eyes say something else, though. "Hey hyung, just… text me? If you need– If you feel like it."

Minseok nods. "I'll try not to get lazy."

They duck into their own cars, then. Jongdae drives off first, but he leaves traces of himself when Minseok hears Jongdae's pop songs through the window. It's that kind of season for Jongdae – he matches his music with the season, the weather, the weather in his stomach. Pop songs are indicative of hope for Jongdae – that he won't maim Sehun if Sehun ever blew up any of the machines. That he won't run into something even with his reckless driving. Underlined twice at the end of the list, that Minseok will take one more step forward instead of forever staying at the other side of the window in the facility.

Minseok turns up his radio and Gabrielle Aplin comes up. Slow, gentle tunes such as this are indicative of something good. So he turns up the volume, allows himself to sway to the music when he reaches a red light.

His phone sounds off and he fishes for it from his pocket. A bright pink sticky note greets him. He looks up at the timer – sixty seconds to spare. Staring at the pink Post-it stuck to his screen shouldn't be a crime. Memorizing the number like the back of his hand, however – that one's the problem.

He inputs the number scrawled at the bottom and types up a message. When the light turns green, he hits the send button before he can even think of deleting his message.

☄

The trip to Yeouido takes a good fifteen minutes by car. Traffic isn't as heavy on a Saturday, and music makes the journey more bearable even under the heat of the sun. The nearest car park is two blocks away from the shelter, so Minseok stays five more minutes in his car, aircon on the highest setting, and lets the music wrap around his neck, creep up the back of his head. He can stay here forever, or for the next hour that he's supposed to spend in the shelter. 'In here' is more inviting than watching someone from the other side of the glass. 'In here' is more comforting than having to talk to social workers and check up on a person whose existence still plagues him.

His phone sounds off twice. His hands move on their own accord, and when he pries one eye open he sees two names on his screen – Jongdae's and Joonmyun's. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for another good minute until he hears the dull ringing of his phone again. Another message, this time just a series of numbers lending to the identity of the texter.

I have a class to teach this afternoon. Are you okay with dinner? the message says. Minseok gulps hard, checks his watch for the time. Gangnam area, since that's your turf.

Sounds good. 6pm? I'm coming from Yeouido, just need to take care of some things. he replies. He types a quick reply, too, to both Joonmyun and Jongdae, and tells them them to never be a stranger, catch up sometime, maybe they can meet in a different country if Joonmyun's too busy to stay for more than five minutes in Korea. You have to do that sometimes, go out of your way, really go out of your way to make things happen. Jongdae's birthday celebration is just the handle; Jongdae blocked off his entire day the minute he heard that Joonmyun was to leave with EXO again days from now. And Minseok who spends Saturday mornings struggling to get himself out of bed just so he could drag himself all the way to Yeouido got up at the first sound of his alarm just to meet up with them in Buam-dong.

He doesn't wait for a reply and, instead, slips his phone in his pocket. The pink Post-it goes in there, too, even if it's made his phone's screen sticky. He locks his car and looks at both sides of the street before crossing.

Lucky is a shelter for people with special needs, specifically those who have been traumatized by really bad accidents or life events. A partner of St. Mary's Hospital, Lucky serves as a home for people who continue to receive treatment from the institution but need to be exposed to the normal day-ins and day-outs of life. And they weren't kidding about the 'home' bit – in all the years that Minseok has been visiting this place, he has felt a bit closer to home. Even the thick glass wall of his sister's confinement chamber – no, her room – can't make him think otherwise.

"She made this last week. Finished it after you left," says Sunyoung, one of the social workers. Almost all the employees here are volunteers who have more time than most people, or maybe more resources. She hands Minseok a thick board, and Minseok swallows hard when he gives the painting a second look. It's the image of a man in his early teenage years in ballet tights. He can recognize that pendant from a mile away. Too bad his sister can't, probably never will. "She hasn't forgotten, oppa. She… she remembers you."

Minseok takes a deep breath. "I don't know, Sunyoung." He runs a thumb along the curve of the person – this image of him – that his sister has drawn. "Remember when she saw me before? Just after the accident? She–"

"That was years ago, oppa."

"And then when I visited her two Christmases ago–"

"Oppa, she felt your fear then. You looked scared as hell." Sunyoung frowns, and Minseok only heaves a sigh as he buries his hands in his pockets. Sunyoung almost always wears a smile, or at least makes people feel like they're something wrong with them if they aren't thinking of being happy. This look is the beginning of frustration, an extension of disappointment. The first time he saw it was two Christmases ago; the second, last Christmas when he shoved his present for his sister in Sunyoung's hands and told her to just give it to her. Tell her that the gift came from Sunyoung and not from her brother.

"A few days ago, I lost my dog," Sunyoung begins, voice dropping to a whisper. "But I had a session with Minyoung, so I said, 'I have to be strong for her. I can't be sad, she can't see me sad.' So I smiled, oppa. I really tried my best. But you know what? The moment I sat beside her, she knew. She took my hand and asked me, 'Sunyoung, what's wrong? Are you okay? You look ugly. You're not smiling.'"

Sunyoung chuckles and Minseok wishes, wishes really hard, that he can do the same. But his chest feels so tight, so heavy, and his whole body is paralyzed. Never mind that his lips are parted and that his mouth hangs open; his body is telling him that he should go there, hug his sister close to his chest, but it's also telling him not to, like he'll explode if doesn't get to hold her this time and blow up even if he does.

"You're not ugly," is the only thing Minseok says. He worries his bottom lip, then adds, "Is she… Is she sad, though?"

Sunyoung looks at Minyoung through the window. "Not sad. Just lost. It's been more than a decade, oppa. She turned legal in this place." Sunyoung heaves a sigh. "Are you never gonna let her find her way back?"

Minseok clenches his fists. "It's… It's not that easy."

It isn't, because if it was then he wouldn't have had to stay from anything related to dancing and cars for an entire year, wouldn't have had to convince himself that not every car would run him over, or crash into another car and take a life. He wouldn't have had to go home with Jongdae everyday and grip Jongdae by the wrist everytime they came across a car, or had to cross the street, or heard a familiar tune that they used to dance to. He wouldn't have had to leave the house he'd inherited from his parents and stay with Jongdae and his parents, instead. If it was easy then Minyoung shouldn't even be there. She should've recovered fully by now, and Minseok wouldn't be lugging his emotional baggage all over town even as he drove across the river.

He was set to perform then, the night of the accident. It was the end-of-the-year showcase of the dance troupe, and his parents were on their way to the hall form work, and it was raining. They were running late, and they were struggling to make it to the venue just so they could catch Minseok performing. Minyoung even had the video camera she'd inherited from one of their cousins and she was supposed to record the whole thing. She wanted to be a director someday, create a documentary on ballet because oppa loves ballet, right? And I love oppa, so I'll do it for him. And Minseok only wanted Minyoung to be happy even if he didn't like seeing his face in pictures or videos.

Minseok was supposed to dance for them and then watch the footage with them the same night. He wasn't supposed to be crying during the performance then rushing to the hospital just to see if they were, at the very least, breathing.

"It really isn't. I know, oppa, I really do." Sunyoung lays a hand on his shoulder. "But you don't have to punish yourself all the time. You're not the only one in pain here."

Minseok nods, slow and careful, like his head will snap off if he decides to move his head forward with more force than the usual. There's a dull ache on his nape, in his throat. It claws at his chest. "I know."

Sunyoung gives him a long look, then drops her hand to her side. "Her art class is starting in a while. Better back off a little." Sunyoung chuckles. "She doesn't like it when a lot of people are watching her paint.

Minseok lets out an exhale and finally gathers enough energy to smile. "She hasn't changed a bit."

He stays for a few more minutes until Sunyoung has to excuse herself to pick up the art teacher from the entrance. "New guy. Used to help out in our Gyeonggi-do chapter," she says before turning around to leave.

Minseok gives his sister one last look before heading to the administrator's office to check Minyoung's records.

☄

The funny thing about coincidences is that they aren't easy to ignore.

He runs into Kyungsoo on his way out of the facility. For a moment, he's tempted to ask if Kyungsoo's visiting someone, but that's not something you ask someone you barely know. Sure, they've had a couple of drinks a few days back and he let Kyungsoo stay the night in his flat, but that's it. There's nothing alluding to a go signal that Minseok can feel free to ask Kyungsoo whatever comes to mind. So he only gives a casual greeting, an, "Oh, hey. This is funny," when Kyungsoo turns to him with wide eyes. Kyungsoo has a file case tucked in his arm, and a carrying case in his free hand. His round-rimmed glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, coming to settle just a few centimeters shy of the tip.

"You're a volunteer here?" Kyungsoo asks. Right, Minseok thinks, that's a better question. "Or?"

"Picked up a few records. Took care of some things," Minseok replies. He buries his hands in his pockets, then adds, "I went to visit my sister at the third floor."

"Oh. The Tundra," Kyungsoo whispers. Minseok nods in affirmation. Kyungsoo seems to know the place well, but something in the furrow of his eyebrows tells Minseok that that might have been a lucky guess or a famous enough place. Lucky is known to be the home of trauma patients, after all – it won't be a surprise if the news capitalized on introducing people to 'The Tundra', made them feel a bit more connected with the place by giving it a fancy name. "Just came from there. I guess I missed you."

"Ah, I left an hour ago. Paperwork just got me stuck here."

"You come here often?"

Minseok chuckles. If, by often, Kyungsoo means every weekend afternoon or whenever Minseok feels courageous enough to pay his sister a visit, then, "Yes. Frequent enough."

Kyungsoo stops in his tracks and gives him a once-over. Minseok leans back a little, taking in the look Kyungsoo is fashioning – gray shirt donned with specks of paint, some streaks of yellow and blue caught on his bangs. Just a dot of red at the center of the left lens of his glasses. Even his pants have streaks of paint on them. Only his blazer has been spared – wise move to take it off during his volunteer session. Kyungsoo looks and feels like an artist so engrossed in his perfecting his craft right now. It almost feels as if he's here, poised to paint the halls with color. Breathe a bit of life into the otherwise drab walls of the institution.

"Stop staring, hyung," Kyungsoo mumbles. He's worrying his bottom lip again, and he's doing something with his hands that only make Minseok catch the traces of paint on his fingers. Minseok laughs a little. "I can't wash my hands yet."

Minseok holds his hands up in defense. "Didn't say anything." He keeps his eyes on Kyungsoo, though, allows the brunt force of a smile hit his lips and pull hard at the corners of his mouth. "Need help with those?

Kyungsoo furrows his eyebrows for a moment, then looks at the things in his hands. "Maybe this," he says, holding out his file case. "Careful with the spine. Uh, you might–"

Minseok frowns at the yellow line along his palm. "Right. Paint. Of course."

"You expected something else?"

I wasn't expecting you, Minseok wants to say. Instead, he answers, "I just expected you to be not as messy."

"Artistic expression comes first," Kyungsoo begins. He takes a step forward and Minseok follows, feet moving on their own accord. "Then comes keeping one's things clean."

Kyungsoo isn't the most talkative of people. Half the time, they walk alongside each other with silence as their companion, and that's it. Sometimes, though, Minseok thinks, he needs that. He needs the silence that's just white noise, a silence so thick not even the voices in his head can seep through the gaps. Kyungsoo seems to be comfortable with it, looking at Minseok from time to time to cock an eyebrow, offer a small smile, or maybe chuckle when Minseok narrowly avoids a small rock. "It got in the way," Minseok says, then, in defense, and only then does he realize that he's just passed the car park and that they need to turn around.

"I apologize in behalf of the rock," Kyungsoo says, a lilt in his tone. He takes a step to his side, closer to Minseok, but takes a step back just as soon. It must be the weather, Minseok muses, because Kyungsoo didn't seem to have an issue with proximity a few nights back, at an intersection in the streets of Gangnam. It was colder than the usual, but then it was fucking two in the morning then. Kyungsoo's gaze hasn't waned yet, though. "You… didn't reply to my text."

"Oh. Right." Minseok fishes for his phone from his pocket, and tries not to grin when he sees three messages from Kyungsoo. Are you okay with pizza, hyung? says the first message; the second, I mean the place is sort of like a pub but they serve great pizza there. You know Apartmento? The third was sent ten minutes ago, a few minutes before they bumped into each other at the exit. See you in Gangnam, it says, no punctuation or anything. It's almost as if Kyungsoo was in a rush then even if he looked as if he was having such a hard time balancing his things in his arms.

"Pizza's great," Minseok replies after a while. He cocks his head to the side, then rushes, "I brought my car. I can take us to Gangnam."

"The black Mazda 6," Kyungsoo says, voice steady and solid like he's so sure of his answer. And maybe he is. Maybe he has some superb eyesight that he'd remembered Minseok's car even in his most inebriated state, in the dark. Maybe that's how artists are – able to take in the smallest, most salient of details even in dim lightning. Able to retain a crisp image of a blurry event in his mind even in a state of drunkenness.

"You drive, too? Or you just like cars?"

Kyungsoo laughs a little. "Both, but I get lazy sometimes. And taking public transport gives me more time to think."

"You can always stay in the car as long as you want." Minseok turns up the engine, then hands Kyungsoo his iPod. "It's cozier."

Kyungsoo stares for a while before taking the iPod and chuckles in response.

Kyungsoo pulls up a Snow Patrol playlist for the rest of the trip. Nearing six in the evening means streets will be littered with cars. Traffic in Seoul isn't completely kind even during weekends, but Kyungsoo's low humming is a good companion throughout the trip. Occasionally, Kyungsoo steals a glance, as if checking if Minseok wants anything, needs something. If he ever notices the way Minseok doesn't stop tapping his feet to the beat, he doesn't bring it up. Instead, Kyungsoo raises the volume just enough for the heavy beats to fill Minseok's ears.

☄

Garosu-gil isn't a place Minseok frequents. Joonmyun is the one who loves coming out here for a drink or for dinner, but even that has changed over time. They go for three bottles of soju in tiny samgyupsal places now, or take home four bottles and drink their asses off at Minseok's place. Joonmyun's easier to wean off the impulsive cleaning when he isn't in his own flat, and this keeps Jongdae from taking more shots than necessary just so he'd have enough courage to tell Joonmyun to calm the fuck down. Minseok looks around, taking in the scene – young adults in restaurants, discussing work woes. Some older people talking about the exact same thing. He feels like a stranger in this place, somehow, even if this area is supposed to be 'home'.

The dim lighting in Apartmento lends a bit of comfort, though. The friendly staff, even more.

Kyungsoo orders a spinello while Minseok asks for the brunch pizza. "For variety," Minseok says with a wink, and Kyungsoo quickly averts his gaze. The yellow light casts Kyungsoo a warm glow, softens the sharp edges of his eyes and the hard corners of his mouth. After he orders a bottle of wine for the two of them, he excuses himself to wash his hands, freshen up.

Minseok cranes his neck and looks at the illustration pressed to the cover of the file case. It's an unfinished sketch, still missing an eye and lips. The hard strokes of the hair are already there, though, and there are hatches where the hair supposedly casts a shadow on the ear.

"It's not yet done," Kyungsoo mumbles when he gets back. He's wearing a fresh white polo now, rolled up to his elbows. Minseok wants to say 'you shouldn't have', but who is he to stop Kyungsoo from changing into something that makes him twice as attractive?

The first three buttons of Kyungsoo's polo are undone. Minseok catches a peek of Kyungsoo's collarbones and a small mole near the clavicle. He gulps hard.

"Your sketching style is amazing, though," Minseok replies. He leans closer, craning his neck even more in an attempt to get a better view. For what Kyungsoo calls an incomplete sketch, the drawing looks so polished. No pencil marks and just a few double lines for the curves. Minseok isn't an amazing artist, but he knows what great art is and can see the skill that was behind it when he sees it. This – this tells him Kyungsoo is so sure of what he draws, of what he wants to create. It speaks of the message that Kyungsoo's wandering gaze doesn't – he wants to talk about art because he knows it inside and out. And because he knows more about it than most people.

Reading body language is a component of Minseok's job. He's spent years learning this – he can't be mistaken.

"You prefer hatching over normal shading?" Minseok tries this time, and that's when Kyungsoo's eyes light up. Kyungsoo's drumming his fingers on the table, a quick beat that isn't set to the ambient sound they're hearing. Here Kyungsoo is again, lost in a song in his mind, unwilling to share the melody with Minseok. Maybe he's trying to figure it out, too.

"It's easier. And it's a nice contrast to the usual shading I do in paintings." Kyungsoo's lips quirk up. "And even then, I use different kinds of shading in paintings depending on the feel of the image and the canvas."

"Ever tried hatching in a big canvas?"

Kyungsoo narrows his eyes, then cocks an eyebrow. "Nope. Never. Waste of paint. And it's hard to control the strokes when you don't have a really fine and nice sable brush?"

"It's the artist, not the brush," Minseok teases.

Kyungsoo doesn't back down, even leans closer and props his chin on his clenched fist. "I'd like to see you try finger painting, then."

Kyungsoo doesn't get 'talkative' about art – he gets passionate about it, fiercely protective when his technique is questioned. Wine gets serve ten minutes after, and by then Kyungsoo has already talked more than he has in all five times that Minseok has ever encountered him. Kyungsoo talks about brush strokes, what each fluid movement means, the difference the slightest change in brush angle can make. He talks about proper layering of acrylic paint and how much trickier it is, albeit popular belief that it's an easier type of paint to work with.

"I mean, sure, acrylic is more flexible than oil paint, but it's the same lack of 'finality' in the substance that makes it so tricky." Kyungsoo's lips do that small, tentative twist, like he's trying to find an easier, less technical way to explain things. Minseok hums in appreciation. "You keep adding one layer of paint on top of another and it takes you a while to realize that your paint has already blotted, or that you've lost some of the details. Then you get tempted to add another layer to it to right the wrong but that – that's the one that's wrong. When you paint, you have to have the mindset that you can't screw up. When it's already on paper, it's final."

Minseok takes a deep breath. He's not sure if Kyungsoo's still talking about painting or life. Either way, there's an ounce of truth to it. He keeps nodding.

"So your second chance – your second and only chance – comes in the form of outlining. You might not do it often, but you have to this time. You don't have a choice. And shading, too. Ah–" Kyungsoo takes a sip of wine, and Minseok watches the gentle bob in the Kyungsoo's throat. He licks his lips in silent approval. "The final touches, those make all the difference. That's where you'll see how an artist solves problems, where he gets truly creative."

Minseok sucks in his his bottom lip, then furrows his eyebrows. "But what if your hand shook somewhere along the way? What if–" He swallows some of the pepperoni stuck in his throat, then takes a sip of wine. "What if that happens? What then? I mean, it's not as if it's your fault your hand shook. You might've been tired already but you really, really just wanted to finish the painting the soonest you could. What if willpower gets the better of your hand?"

Kyungsoo's eyes widen, and he leans back into his seat. Then there it is, the slow-blooming smile that tug the corners of Kyungsoo's mouth up. It reaches his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, bares all of his teeth. Minseok takes another sip of his drink and thinks, wow, Kyungsoo looks like a painting come to life.

He thinks, wow, his head's swirling with all the painting talk he'd done. But he's still here, leaning closer, eager to hear more.

"That's why there's a thing called artistic license, hyung. So we can make mistakes look good, choke them up to the artist's painting style." Kyungsoo chuckles. "There's a reason why we paint, and that's because all these ugly things we see everyday? The bad things?" Kyungsoo snorts, and he clasps a hand over his mouth when the sound comes out too strong. "The bad things, we paint over those. Make them look pretty. Remind people that, sometimes, you just have to look at things differently. Then you'll start to see all that's beautiful in life."

There's a thick lump in Minseok's throat that just won't leave. He chugs the rest of his wine down, looking sophisticated be damned. "Is that what you tell people during exhibit openings?"

The corners of Kyungsoo's lips tug up, down, and up again, like he can't decide if he should be smiling or grinning. "You got me there."

A thick blanket of silence settles between them, but it isn't the uncomfortable kind. It sounds like the low thrumming of a car engine, or the airconditioning in Jongdae's office. The sound of Joonmyun's fridge at six in the morning, when Minseok gets out of bed to cook the last homemade meal Joonmyun will be eating in a while before EXO ventures into a packed schedule again. The comfortable silence between Kyungsoo and Minseok that soars above Gary Lightbody singing on the radio – it wraps around Minseok like a quilt, urges him to lean in, come closer, urges him to tell Kyungsoo to go on. So he keeps his lips pressed close, the light upward tug at the corners pulling up at his cheeks even more. He stares, holding Kyungsoo's gaze, steady for the first time since they started talking about art. He taps his foot to a familiar song in his head, one that sounds a lot like the tune Kyungsoo was humming that night in the intersection at two in the morning.

Kyungsoo's lips quiver. Minseok breaks eye contact, following the motion of Kyungsoo's tongue swiping along his bottom lip with his gaze. A traitorous cold creeps up his spine, numbs the tips of his fingers. So he keeps tapping his foot in an effort to bring back the feeling in his hands, his whole body. The feeling in chest that keeps constricting at every upward tug of Kyungsoo's lips.

☄

Eleven in the evening and Kyungsoo's cheeks are already a bright shade of red. Granted, they're on their second bottle of wine, but this just wine. Minseok's expecting better, like at any minute Kyungsoo will slip out of his state of inebriation and be able to down a glass of wine again in one unceremonious gulp. But he doesn't. Instead, Kyungsoo draws patterns on the table with his index finger. There are still crumbs at the corners of his lips from when Minseok had forced him to please take the last roll. His ears are the same shade of red as his lips are. He keeps worrying and licking and worrying his lips that Minseok wants to slap his hand away and tell Kyungsoo, will you stop that?

Minseok gives in and reaches out, but only the pads of his fingers brush against Kyungsoo's chin. There's the opportunity to pull Kyungsoo closer, or for Minseok to lean in, but that's not what you do in business meetings, is it? You don't trace the curve of the face of the person you're meeting up with in the hope that he'd give you a more affordable price for his art. You don't think of using your tongue in other ways to convince him to accept your deal. You don't think of crazy things and wonder why he makes your breathing hitch. You don't think of finishing kissing him. So Minseok doesn't. Instead, he pokes a corner of Kyungsoo's lips with his index finger and brushes the crumbs away.

"Messy eater," he whispers. Kyungsoo makes a tiny hiccuping sound. "The other side, as well."

"Thanks," Kyungsoo mumbles. He rubs his thumbs at the corners of his mouth. "Wasn't like this before."

Kyungsoo's lips are parted just slightly. There's an invitation scrawled on them, more words dangling off the edge. Minseok takes a deep, breath, asking, "Before?" It's simple enough a question, the lilt almost inaudible, that if Kyungsoo feels uncomfortable sharing then he can ignore it. Forget Minseok even posed a question, if it's a question at all. Kyungsoo looks at him with dark eyes and a stare that's only vacant for a few seconds, and then he's back. Minseok can see himself reflected in Kyungsoo's eyes again, clearer than before.

"I didn't drink this much back then. Didn't have the time," Kyungsoo answers. He looks around for something and worries a corner of his mouth when he doesn't find it. Minseok takes a stab at guessing and pushes his glass of water forward. Kyungsoo's lips fall into a tiny 'o' in acknowledgement. "I was either working in the office or working at home. Or in my car, when I'm stuck in traffic." He takes a few gulps of water before continuing. "Might've even been working in my sleep at one point."

Minseok chuckles. That was him during the first two, three years of his employment. He had a love-hate relationship with art, and an even more dysfunctional relationship with design. When you're forced to come up with creative ideas on a daily basis, all that's beautiful turns into images of wilted flowers. The only seed of hope then was his yoga class every 8 p.m., T-Th. Or only on Tuesdays, if they were hoping to win a new business. Agency life's a bitch; pitches, even more so.

"Used to be like that, working 25/7." Minseok takes a sip of his wine. "Even when taking a dump."

Kyungsoo snorts. "Ah, that one's sacred to me. The world stops when I take a dump."

"Lucky you. I usually have to file a 'shit leave' whenever I do that."

Kyungsoo shrugs. "Important people don't file shit leaves. They just take it."

Minseok squints, leaning closer, then licks his bottom lip before sucking it in. "Ah. Let me guess – client side?"

Kyungsoo cocks an eyebrow but doesn't back down, doesn't shiver. His index finger and thumb are steady on the stem of the wine glass. Some of the condensation catches on the tip of Kyungsoo's nails and he flicks it off quickly. Like this how he's telling Minseok, it isn't so bad. It can't be that obvious. "How did you know?"

Easy – the gentle cock of the eyebrow, the slow quirk of the mouth, like Kyungsoo's so sure of himself, of everything, of the choices he's been making and has made in his life. It's there, the sense of authority and the way he commands attention, in the way Kyungsoo strings his words together, in the way he delivers them, so well-enunciated like he knows each syllable bears weight. And it probably does. He speaks as if he knows exactly how to make the world stop turning while he's shitting, and how to put it back into orbit once he's done. "It's obvious," Minseok says, instead, in an effort to summarize everything. "You sound like one."

"You make it sound so bad, hyung," Kyungsoo says, laughing a little. This tone makes him sound years younger, a brand manager in training. Still sure of himself, but with a hint of apprehension. The soft roll of the hyung off his tongue sends a shiver down Minseok's spine. "Clients aren't always bad."

"Most of the ones I've encountered are."

"Then you have an awful client roster," Kyungsoo states. He slips his tongue between his lips, just peeking from the small opening. "I'm pretty considerate."

"Pretty considerate," Minseok echoes. "Sounds scary. Ominous."

"You're fired. I'm dropping you as my partner agency!"

The lilt in Kyungsoo's voice is funny. It's almost as if he's transformed into someone different after a bottle and a half of wine.

The transaction is put on hold, but then so is their sanity. Kyungsoo still makes sense even after they've already finished their second bottle of wine, but he trips over tiny humps on the street as they make their way to the main road. Minseok moves closer, prepared to cushion Kyungsoo's fall if he ever misses a step, but he's much too drunk as well. His vision is a bit hazy, but that can just be the midnight air. And the lack of his glasses to make the entire picture look clearer. He relies on muscle memory, then. If it fails him, then he'll laugh. And if Kyungsoo laughs at him – bold, bright, uninhibited, thick with alcohol and drunkenness – he'll pull Kyungsoo down with him so they can laugh at each other.

☄

"I'm alive," Minseok croaks into the receiver. He clears his throat, then repeats, "Yeah, I'm still alive. In one piece. Just… really tired."

His Sunday duty at the gym usually starts at ten in the morning – just the usual ocular inspection, making sure people don't jam their feet into the machines because it happens to Sehun half the time. Donghae and Eunhyuk take over Zumba and Junsu covers for Minseok for yoga on weekends, but only on those days. He's just woken up, though, and it's already ten minutes past the hour. So it's normal for Jongdae to give him a ring and check if he's still breathing, at the very least. How he got into bed last night is a blur. How he got home, however, he remembers perfectly – it was Kyungsoo's who'd helped him look for his keys, Kyungsoo who helped him get on his feet when he bumped into the door shortly after opening it. Kyungsoo assisted him all the way to the couch, rummaged through his fridge for enough ice to fill a bag. He sort of slipped and twisted his ankle during the walk to his flat. Fuck wine – muscle memory is no match for it.

"I can move my feet and– Who told you–" Minseok pushes himself off the bed now and flexes his fingers, bends his torso to reach for his toes. There's still a dull ache in his ankle, but the pain's more manageable now. He tries standing on his feet, then, exhales loudly when he doesn't feel a sting shoot up his calves when he transfers weight from one foo to another. "You're my– Oh, right, you're my on my speed dial."

"I'm actually very touched, hyung," Jongdae mumbles. He sounds more mad than honored, though. "You want me to pick you up or something? Get you to a doctor?"

"Hey, I'm an adult now. You don't have to take care of me anymore. This isn't like–"

"Hyung, you twisted your ankle. Cut the crap. Now, do you want to have that checked by a doctor?"

Minseok heaves a sigh. Years ago, it wouldn't have been a question. Minseok would have insisted to see a doctor at once, maybe even right after he'd twisted his ankle or pulled a muscle. You have to take care of your legs, your feet, he remembers his instructor saying. Those are your investment. Those parts of you are the ones you have to take care of the most.

"Just in case," he whispers in reply. He looks around and shuts his eyes tight when sunlight catches on his eyelashes. "Is it okay if you drive me to the doctor?"

Jongdae chuckles. "As long as you pay for my gas. And food. And coffee."

Minseok laughs in reply. "And milk tea for Sehun, because we probably won't be back until the afternoon."

Jongdae groans in acknowledgement and excuses himself to run Sehun through today's to-do list. Minseok promises to be ready in an hour or less, fresh again, without the stink of last night's alcohol to haunt him for the rest of the day.

But a hangover doesn't leave you at once. It follows you everywhere you go, latches onto your memories, the tips of your fingers, the roots of your hair. Water pours down on him, hot but not enough to sting, but even that cannot ease the ache that alcohol has left in his head. His veins throb with every sharp intake of breath. He remembers college, the time when he'd tried to get back into dancing but couldn't. Every twist and turn made his head ache. Every pop of his chest or his shoulders sent a weird, numbing pain to his knees. Every quick beat made his heart race in his chest and he couldn't run. His feet were stuck to the ground, still stuck in the time when he lost his parents and almost lost his sister to a car crash. To them wanting to see him perform on stage in the biggest even of the school. To his dreams.

He turns off the tap and tries to recall the sound of white noise. What blares in his ears is the sound of Kyungsoo's steady humming, instead.

Jongdae arrives at his place thirty minutes after, primed for a lazy Sunday in a baggy shirt and shorts. "Hey, at least they're not the floral ones this time," Jongdae says in defense, and Minseok holds his hands up in his response. His throat still feels dry from all the alcohol he'd taken last night. They didn't even talk much the whole time they were together. At one point, Kyungsoo was just staring at him as if expecting him to get it, whatever it was that he was trying to say. And Minseok did the same.

Once they're settled in the car, Jongdae turns on the engine but not the radio. He gives Minseok a long look, then gestures at Minseok's leg. "I'm all ears, hyung. Even in you don't want to talk."

Feeling his throat again, he laughs a little. "What gives? You know I'm not good at the talking thing."

"I'm supposed to play the part of the nosy best friend, hyung," Jongdae replies. He nudges Minseok in his side before stepping on the gas. "C'mon, spill."

Minseok takes a deep breath, then fishes for his phone. Two unread messages, one from Jongdae and the other from Kyungsoo. A message sent at six in the morning that says, I promise to give you a price for the painting soon, hyung. Just figuring things out. Please ice your ankle. Take care.

"I'll pretend I know what the text says and connect that to what happened last night." Jongdae drawls the last few syllables, then chuckles when Minseok makes a face at him. "The sooner you tell me about it, the sooner I'll shut up!"

"You won't shut up," Minseok argues. Thank God for green lights, because otherwise Jongdae would probably be miming. Thank God for the slightly sprained ankle, too, because if he isn't injured then he'd be the one taking the wheel and Jongdae would have every opportunity to weed out information from him. Not that there's anything to tell, really – he just had pizza and maybe too much wine with a friend last night. The intent was to sign off a contract of sorts, finalize a transaction, but Minseok should've known better than to believe that would happen after their first bottle of wine. At least they'd gotten some details nailed down, ironed out. Minseok still feels strongly about the painting the same way he does about talking to Kyungsoo, engaging him in conversation. Kyungsoo is an artwork in himself – the initial sketch of which has been covered by layers upon layers of paint. He's interested in peeling off every color, every light wash of yellow, red, and blue. Run a thumb along the surface of the painting to get a better feel of it.

"Okay. You're clearly not going to start talking anytime soon. I'll start giving you guide questions." Jongdae slows down as the light turns yellow, then eventually red. He steps on the breaks. "Who was the guy who called me last night?"

"A friend," Minseok replies. He keeps his eyes glued on the side mirror, checking for motors that might slip through the narrow passageway between cars. Some motorists do that, sometimes, take risks just to get dibs on getting a move on from the red light. "Someone I met through Kibum."

"Kibum?" Jongdae cocks an eyebrow. "You have a friend named Kibum? You actually go out and make friends?" Jongdae gasps, but it's mostly for show. The hint of a smile at the corners of his lips gives him away.

Minseok takes a deep breath and gives Jongdae a tight-lipped smile. "Joonmyun knows him."

Jongdae shrugs. "Well, that makes more sense."

Jongdae's usually more focused than this, but driving takes most of his attention and leaves the last few ounces of his focus. Minseok capitalizes on it, dives head-first into the opportunity and grabs it. "The exhibit was great. Joonmyun really enjoyed it," he mentions. Jongdae nods, then, humming, and Minseok takes this as a sign to continue. "Or at least he looked like he was having fun. Actually–" Minseok laughs a little, suddenly remembering Joonmyun's other agenda for paying Kibum a visit in the exhibit. "He was looking for someone to work on EXO's album cover, a fresh talent–"

Jongdae turns to look at him, eyes narrowed and lips tugged down in a frown. This is best record so far – the last time Minseok pulled the same stunt, it took Jongdae five whole minutes to realize he'd been effectively steered away from the main topic. Jongdae slaps Minseok on the arm, then the hand when Minseok uses to fiddle with the controls of the radio.

Jongdae moves like he's in his own car, like he knows exactly what Minseok is thinking about. He certainly does, now. "Hyung. Focus."

That's the thing – he's been focusing on one thing and one thing, alone, his entire life, and that's reaching the end of the line. Working his ass of to pay for his daily expenses and so he could give into his whims. The one time he decides to step outside the track, he looks to his side and at the person at the table beside theirs. And he hasn't looked back ever since.

Minseok averts his gaze, then, and finally meets Jongdae in the eye. They still have a good sixty seconds to waste. There's no escape. "He's a painter," he begins, then, recalling the way Kyungsoo tested him, asked him what he thought about one of his paintings that was showcased in the exhibit. "He's an artist. I… first saw him in the art show Joonmyun and I went to a few weeks ago. The one you were supposed to go to, as well." Minseok remembers to pause at the end, to offer Jongdae a small smile. "The one you'd bailed out from because you were 'busy with paperwork'."

"He brought that bullshit, though," Jongdae replies. Twenty seconds 'til the light turns green again. "Looks like you enjoyed it. I mean, you were alone with Joonmyun-hyung–"

"It was a very weird show. Not the date-kind of art show people go to."

"Ah. And he finally states his intentions." Jongdae pulls the lever up and steps on the gas. "After, what, a lifetime? Better late than never."

Jongdae isn't looking at him, but he's sure Jongdae can see the light cock of his eyebrow. After a deep breath, he says, "Yeah. Whatever. That show."

He chooses the information he tells Jongdae about – Kyungsoo being the savior with the cute ass, running into Kyungsoo on his way home that same day. Kyungsoo coming to the exhibit all dressed up, suit and all, but still looking so small. And the red bowtie, of course, because Jongdae's particular with tiny details like those. He doesn't tell Jongdae, though, that Kyungsoo took out the pineapple in the pizza they were served, or that he sprinkled some chili flakes on the Nutella pizza they ate last night. Doesn't tell Jongdae that Kyungsoo eats pizza like a five-year-old and that the crumbs always, always, always catch on the corners of his lips. Doesn't tell Jongdae that Kyungsoo isn't so averse to the idea of short distances between people when he's drunk, or that Kyungsoo's hands are so small that Minseok can envelop Kyungsoo's fist in his hand.

He doesn't tell Jongdae about the lurching in his stomach at the moment, the way his insides turn with every little recollection of the minutes he's spent with Kyungsoo, either.

"Is he the artist behind the painting of the brooding girl? The picture you sent via KKT?" Jongdae asks now, as he helps Minseok up the last flight of stairs on their way to the main lobby of the hospital. "Long hair with bangs that cover the eyes?"

"It's a painting of regret, Jongdae," Minseok reiterates for the third time. "Calling her a 'brooding girl' sort of demeans the character."

"Because the painting is an extension of the artist. Right." Jongdae beams at the receptionist, then snakes an arm around Minseok's shoulder. "What? I don't want you to get lost. I bet it's your first time here."

Hardly his first, he wants to say. The first few months following the accident, he felt a stinging pain in his ankles and knees all the time. He was here almost every weekend, and even after not being here for years, he still knows the places, the offices, the rooms like the back of his hand. Radiology department is at the second floor, because that's where most office workers go to for their annual check up. His physical therapist's office is on the fifth floor. The PT room, however, is at the ground floor, just beside the cafeteria. Only once did he ask Jongdae to pick him up there instead of just heading home straight from the check up. That one time was exactly six months after the accident. He could feel the pain clawing at his insides then.

"The health card person's usually at the ground level," he says, nonetheless, playing along. If he argues, Jongdae will only dig up things. And Jongdae's good at weeding out information from people if and when needed.

"I knew that."

"Of course," Minseok sing songs. He bumps his hips into Jongdae's side. "You know everything."

They're third in line for the physical therapist. Minseok would have requested for his old PT, but he's gone now, moved to a new district, servicing different people. It's not as if he expected Dr. Shim to still be here. It has been years, after all. People move on as quickly as a hitch of the breath after; it just takes longer for some people, Minseok included. Sometimes, it takes forever. So he waits for the first patient to be called, and then for the next, and when it's time to enter the doctor's office he takes a deep breath.

People move on, he tells himself a second time, to the rhythm of his forward-facing footsteps. Jongdae's grip on his wrist is loose enough that he can shuck off Jongdae's hand anytime, but he doesn't. He lets Jongdae hold onto him and lead him to the right path. There are some things worth holding on to, after all, and this – Jongdae's comforting, assuring presence, he's not willing to let go of this just yet. Ever.

☄

Minseok sends Sunyoung a text, saying he won't be able to come over today. It's too risky – Yeouido isn't too far from Gangnam, but he's not quite sure how easy it will be to take public transport with a sprained ankle and a dull ache in his knees. "Lesson learned: don't drink too much now that you're past thirty," Jongdae teases as if he isn't past that age, himself. His grip on Minseok's arm is firm and steady, though, like if he loosens it at any minute Minseok will lose balance and fall. He won't, Minseok wants to tell Jongdae. He's dealt with worse. But that isn't bullshit Jongdae will buy. "Old people like you aren't supposed to be waltzing in the streets at three in the morning."

"Two," Minseok corrects. He was out with Kibum, Joonmyun, and Kyungsoo until two in the morning the day of the exhibit. He got home around the same time the day he went out with Kyungsoo for pizza and the painting. Two in the morning is safe; three in the morning is crazy. "And don't use that word, jeez." He heaves a sigh. "Jongdae, you know–"

Jongdae takes a step closer to the door and the glass slides to the side. "You're not still allergic to dance, are you?"

"I'm not allergic to it. You know the concept of 'trauma'?"

"Hyung, I didn't mean waltzing waltzing. I meant you frolicking the streets at a late hour."

Minseok offers a small smile, but it feels nothing like one. The stretch at the corners stings more than the ache in his knees. "Now that's a better word," he mumbles. "And old people are supposed to be respected, not be bullied around."

Jongdae gives him a long look before walking to the other side of the counter. Minseok had wiggled out of Jongdae's grasp just a few minutes ago. He needs to practice taking big strides on his own; he can't drag Jongdae to his house and keep him for a day, after all.

"You're impossible," Jongdae whispers. He scribbles something on a piece of paper, then hands it to Minseok. "This will be your press release to Joonmyun-hyung. You won't tell him we went to the doctor, okay? You're okay. You can kick my sorry ass in yoga–"

Minseok reaches over, ruffling Jongdae's hair, but he's careful not to put strain on his ankle. His knees are just complaining – that isn't real pain. That's the cry of the weak, and that he isn't. So he says, because he can and this is the sign Jongdae is looking for, "I can kick your cute ass in yoga any day." There's a flicker of something in Jongdae's eyes, a light switch that was once broken. He catches the compliment smack in the middle of the sentence and latches onto it, capitalizes on it like it's the most important part of the sentence. And maybe it is. If Minseok feels well enough to crack a silly joke like that then he can convince Jongdae that he'll be fine on his own. If he can tease Jongdae like that, then he'll be able to make Jongdae feel that he can do anything. That he's Kim Minseok again, not Kim-Minseok-who-injured-himself-while-he-walked-home-ass-drunk-at-ass-o-clock-in-the-morning.

Jongdae leaves the counter and starts making his way to the machines area. Halfway through, he stops, wiggles his ass even if there are at least seven people in the pantry, chugging down water after their workout.

Minseok laughs. He remembers to say, "And thanks for taking me to the play place, mom!" The wide grin on Jongdae's lips softens. There's a conscious effort to think of those days when Jongdae was the one taking care of him and not the other way around. The memories are tucked there, somewhere at the back of his mind, but Minseok won't dig them up on an ordinary day just so he could have a good laugh. It doesn't even make him smile. The only good thing about those days was the fact that Jongdae was there to salvage whatever was left of his sanity. And then he met Joonmyun, and Joonmyun turned out to be pretty good at fixing broken people. First year of college and Minseok was already feeling brand new. He'd covered the scar at the back of his mind with band aids. He checks on the cluster from time to time just to make sure the bands don't come off.

"Anytime, kid," Jongdae says loud enough for Minseok to hear. He holds the gaze a little longer, then turns on his heel. Jongdae wiggles his ass one last time before disappearing into a corner.

Minseok fishes for his phone, then, and goes through his unread messages – two from Sunyoung, one from Kibum, and one from Kyungsoo. The first says, oppa, they'll be having an art exhibit week after next, thursday. you're coming, right? c:; the second, please please please come? she's receiving an award and i want you to be there to give it to her :D It seems more daunting than exciting, but Minseok reminds himself, it's your duty. You have to do this. You're his oppa, right? It's not the concept of going up the stage that repels him; it's the thought of Minyoung seeing him, meeting him eye-to-eye, and the possibility of Minyoung not recognizing him that does.

heard from sunyoung there's a special exhibit in yeouido 2 wks from now. u wanna com? seems interesting, says Kibum's message.

We have an exhibit in Yeouido two weeks from now. Thursday week after next. If you're interested, we'd be happy to have you there, says Kyungsoo text.

Minseok's half-tempted to tell Sunyoung that their art teacher should take over her promoting duties, but Sunyoung knows him in a way Kyungsoo doesn't. She knows that he'll never be able to say no to any request involving Minyoung but, at the same time, think of bailing out at the very last minute. He'll always push through, though, turn up at The Tundra just in time for Minyoung to receive an award. He'll never walk to the stage, though, or at least move closer to it so he could take pictures of his sister receiving an award, beaming at the crowd applauding her. She's won at least three already – the first is for their handicraft classes, and the second is for their music class. The third one, Minseok should've seen coming – she made a pretty crazy Photoshop composition using three different pictures. She's always been good with digital art. She's passionate about it.

If things had gone differently that night, maybe she'd be in KBS now, directing shows from the floor. She'd be calling out, "Camera 2!", the way she does when they were still playing as kids. She'd probably be bugging Minseok to be the star of her new video – a music video. She'd be forcing Minseok to do the choreography because oppa's dancing is the best!

His phone sounds off, and in comes another message from Kibum – oh hey turns out the exhibit thing is kyungsoo's thing and i have to go. COME WITH ME HYUNG PLS KYUNGSOO'S GONNA BORE ME OUT OF MY WITS PLSSS

Ask nicely :) is his curt reply. After receiving a plethora of stickers from Kibum, he finally says yes, then navigates to Kyungsoo's message. It better be good, he types.

Best art show you'll ever see. Winkeu, Kyungsoo replies. Minseok has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from cackling.

Later that night, after cleaning up the takeout dinner he'd gotten with Jongdae, he leans back against his couch and sees a handkerchief tucked between two pillows. It's a simple white piece of cloth donned with… smudges of paint. Finger prints that are so tiny they could've been that of a kid's. A weird sort of art form that doesn't look like a mess, at all. It reminds him of a blurry photo of a ballerina – the creases of her skirt at the thin and sharp lines along the smudges and washes of paint. The smudge on the big thumbmark, that's her bun. The tiny protrusion is her nose. Her lips are there, somewhere. Maybe he only has to squint some more for a clearer picture. He holds it up against the light, cocks his head in an attempt to get a clearer picture but he doesn't. This is an unfinished image – the ballerina's missing one leg and one arm and her lips, they've got to be there somewhere. The tiny smudge at the edge is probably one half of the ballet shoes that she's lost. There are short lines akin to hatches at a corner and these marks, he doesn't know how to interpret anymore.

He snaps a photo of it and attaches a message, saying, Could you help me with this one? Not sure if the artist and I share the same interpretation… He hits the send button and places his phone face down on the table nearby. A short beep, and then the display lights up. With a sharp intake of breath, he leans in and reaches out for his phone, turns it around, grins.

Oh, that's pretty interesting. It looks like a dancer
** a dancer but she's missing a leg?
Holy shit that's my handkerchief
Hyung, don't. Don't say a word. That's an unfinished piece. DON'T SAY ANYTHING.

There are a number of ways that he can reply – he can tease Kyungsoo, laugh at him for not being able to recognize his own work. He can tell Kyungsoo that it sucks and that he could have it; Minseok won't even put up a fight. He can choose not to reply and wait for Kyungsoo to take action, but this girl is missing a leg. There isn't anything she can do. So Minseok drums his fingers on his phone for a while before typing up a reply – I'm interested to know more about this painting ;)

7 p.m. at Gangnam tomorrow, hyung.
It's a date.

☄

Monday morning requires Minseok to be more upbeat than the usual, even before his first cup of coffee. When you work in a gym that opens at five in the morning and starts to get flocked by people an hour after, being in the right mood is a must. He shifts in bed, stretches his arms over his head and narrowly misses the headboard. The sting jolts him to a less lethargic state, but the pull of gravity on his eyelids is much too strong. He stayed up until two in the morning, exchanging messages with Kyungsoo on KKT about wash techniques and the proper use of acrylic paint versus oil paint.

Go to bed, hyung. You can barely spell anymore. Rest well, was Kyungsoo's last message before Minseok gave in to the call of slumber. No stickers and smileys, because that isn't how Kyungsoo sends messages. He'd probably use the actual word for a smile when he means to send a smiley, or the word for a frown when he means to send a crying emoticon or simply a sad one. Minseok shakes his head the same way he'd fought the urge to send Kyungsoo a sticker last night. His reflex with good night messages has always been to answer with a sticker – that's how he convinces Jongdae and Joonmyun to go to bed.

But this is Do Kyungsoo, and Do Kyungsoo isn't anything like Jongdae and Joonmyun. It's both a blessing and a curse.

His phone sounds off, signaling his 4:15 alarm, and he dives back into his bed to turn it off. When he swipes the alarm to the left, what greets him is a new message from Kyungsoo, sent at three in the morning.

Tried to complete the painting but ugh. It's hard.
Sorry, you must be asleep... See you tonight, hyung.

He takes a deep breath and tosses his phone back to his bed. There's no time to waste. He can worry about how to reply to this later.

The gym already smells of coffee and toast when he arrives. Sehun isn't usually chipper at an early hour, but Monday makes him more receptive to early morning greetings and a pat on the shoulder. "'Morning, hyung," Sehun mumbles, then wraps his arms around Minseok, burying his face in Minseok's neck. "Toast's in the staff pantry. Made sure not to fall asleep while making 'em."

"Yeah, and you're falling asleep now." He chuckles when Sehun only hums in response. The weight on his shoulder begins to bear down on him, and that's when he turns around to shake Sehun back to a state of consciousness. "Hey, hey, I think you need coffee–"

"Sorry, the milk took longer than the usual to–" Jongdae stops in his tracks, a glass of milk held up high. "He fell asleep?"

"Almost," Minseok says. He gives Sehun's ass a light tap and doesn't drop his hand to his side until Sehun stands up straight. "Go, drink your milk. I'm gonna make eggs for us."

"Done and done," Jongdae declares, beaming. "Hard-boiled, right?"

Minseok narrows his eyes, then looks at Jongdae, then Sehun, then Jongdae again. "Okay, what's up?"

Sehun takes a sip of his milk and blows at it before looking up to meet Minseok in the eye. "My back injury from two years ago sorta... uh..." He scratches the back of his neck, and a small, apologetic smile begins to surface on his lips. "Well I... I went to the doctor the other day and he said I'll have to cut down on the Zumba sessions."

"O...kay?" Minseok turns to look at Jongdae, but Jongdae has this weird, unreadable sort of expression right now that almost makes him look like a stranger. Lips turned down to a frown, gaze fixed on an inanimate object and not on the eyes of the person he's talking to – this is Jongdae back when he was still a kid who was still looking for a hobby and the right hairstyle for him. "I haven't had coffee yet. You'll have to tell me straight."

"I have to take a leave for a few days, hyung. Or maybe weeks. I need to do therapy for this," Sehun answers. He worries his bottom lip, takes a sip of his milk like it can calm him down. He gets back to biting his lips as soon as licks the remaining milk off of his lips. "And we need someone to cover for me."

Minseok scoffs. "I'm not taking over your Zumba classes, Sehun. We've already talked about this before." He takes a deep breath, then turns to face Jongdae. "We've talked about this before. We have a lot of part-timers, right? They're great. I've seen them dance and they're really good. The members here like them."

"Hyung."

"I'm not dancing Zumba for you, Sehun, and neither am I doing it for you." He takes a few steps forward, inching closer to Jongdae. The corners of Jongdae's lips are tight, dry. His eyes are sharp and focused, but they aren't guarded. This, at least, Minseok knows. This one, he knows how to work around. So he lays a palm flat on Jongdae's arm, runs it down the length and grips Jongdae by the wrist. "Dae, I'm sorry. I can... help you look for a reliever."

Jongdae takes a deep breath and shrugs. "It's not yet final. I just thought..." He laughs a bit, but it comes out in dry, little puffs. "I trust you know some dancers who could–"

"Kibum dances. Used to, when he hadn't focused on painting yet. He used to do theatre and some dancing on the side." He slides his hand further down, then rubs his thumb on the back of Jongdae's hand. "I'll call him later, after lunch. He rarely gets up early."

Jongdae offers a little smile. "He'll have to fix that if he wants to dance here."

"I can try to blackmail him," Minseok kids.

Sehun walks over, clasping a hand on their shoulders. "Fifteen minutes 'til they start coming in. We better eat now."

"Of course," Jongdae whispers. He snakes an arm around Minseok's shoulder and pulls Minseok close, then reaches up to give Minseok's hair a quick ruffle. It's a gesture reminiscent of when Jongdae was still taking care of him and really, Jongdae should know better than to bring up the past, but Minseok doesn't put up a fight this time. He's already been awake for more than an hour and he hasn't had his coffee yet. He's not awake enough for this. "Two eggs for maknae!"

Sehun groans in response, but throws an arm around Minseok as well and leans his head against Minseok's own.

He slips into the hot room fifteen minutes after, just enough time for him to get used to the temperature. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to clear his mind. Unclog the vessels where some of his past has accumulated and flush them out in the shortest possible time. When he feels his body lighten, he stands from where he is, stretches his arms above his head. With his toes pointed out, he takes careful steps forward – one, two, a light hop before he does a pirouette. There's a faint song playing in his ears, in his mind, a distant memory of someone humming, and he smiles when he recognizes the tone and the gravel of the voice.

He keeps spinning, head swaying to the tune in his head. His body recognizes it, too.

☄

"I think that, sometimes, you forget the hot room has two huge glass panels," Jongdae mentions after Minseok's second yoga class. He locks his arms behind his back, stretching. "I saw what you did. But don't worry, hyung – I didn't check you out."

Minseok looks to his side, then grabs the bottle of water Jongdae has pressed to his cheek. The sting doesn't hurt so much, but it jolts him back to his senses, pokes a small hole in his happy yoga bubble that eventually leads to his deflation. His shoulders haven't tensed yet – he owes this to years of yoga practice – but he can feel all the sensation at the tips of his fingers dissipate, drip from his fingers. Jongdae's looking at him with sharp eyes and a knowing smile that makes him want to claw at Jongdae's face. That look is a sin. Jongdae knowing how to read him and exactly how to slam realities like this in his face is a sin.

"I know I have a nice ass," Minseok quietly says, then uncaps the bottle in his hand. "Which reminds me, I promised to call Kibum for you–"

"Hyung, come on, do this for me." Jongdae moves closer. He leans his head on Minseok's shoulder, then says, "Just one class, please? One Zumba class?"

Minseok leans back, meeting Jongdae in the eye. The answer is there, at the tip of his tongue, waiting for an enunciation, but it weasels its way back to his throat, lodges itself there like a blockage he can't get rid of.

"Jongdae," he begins, then takes a deep breath. He wants to say, hey, do you mind putting space between us? I'm sweaty and you know I can't say no to you and this is unfair, but isn't he being unfair, too? He'd promised years ago, when Jongdae had just opened up the gym, that he'd help in any way he can, offer his services, cover for Sehun if he had to. And he had to, now. So it's only fair for him to keep his promise and say 'yes', right? Isn't it only fair for him to give in and finally cast his apprehensions aside, push back the concept of fear to the very back of his mind until he forgets?

But–

The car crash. Losing his parents in a blink of an eye, losing his sister's soul and tormenting her with having to live without recognition of her past. Losing them just because he was selfish and wanted to pursue a dream that seemed, at that time, to present itself to him on a silver platter. When life hands you temptation in the form of dance, you don't just take its hand and twirl it around. You walk around it first, asses your partner, and then take its hand once you're sure of what you want. But Minseok didn't know that before. He was too young then, too foolish. Too naive to realize that the good things in life aren't those that are just presented at your feet.

"I don't know," he finally says, huffing. Jongdae lets out a light laugh, but the sound gets choked and Jongdae ends up coughing. "I'm not sure if I can do it. It's–"

"It's high-time you tried to dance again, hyung, because it's been years since the accident happened." Jongdae sits up straight, but he doesn't move away, the press of their arms against each other hot and sticky. "And you've got to forgive yourself soon, y'know? You can't keep blaming yourself for this."

"You don't know how it feels, Jongdae."

Jongdae snorts. "Sure, I do. I lost Jongdeok-hyung to a plane crash. That hurt. That fucking stung, hyung." Jongdae takes a deep breath, eyebrows furrowed, but the corners of his mouth lift into a small, wistful smile. "But you know what? I thought, ah, Jongdeok-hyung wouldn't want me to waste my life thinking that I was the reason behind his death. That if he didn't get on that plane just to make it to my graduation, he wouldn't have died. I'm sure your mom and dad don't want you to feel bad, either. So please–" He rests a hand on Minseok's own, and Minseok shivers at the touch, at the contact of Jongdae's cold fingers with the back of his hand. "Please, hyung, do yourself a far. Here's an opportunity and it's presenting itself to you. At least try to grab it. Don't shy away from it. It's enough that I lost one hyung to physical death. Watching you do this to yourself – it's like watching you kill yourself, hyung, and trust me, it doesn't look nice."

Minseok scoffs and looks at their now intertwined hands, how Jongdae's small hand looks much bigger beside his. It's the same hand that held his without preamble the night Minseok found out about the crash, the same hand that held his as Minseok tried to go to sleep. It's the hand that constantly tugs at his wrist, pulls him forward, urges him to get a move on even if he's done nothing but hold Jongdae back.

"That's a very morbid image," Minseok whispers after a while. The room feels too cold even after a workout. Jongdae's fingers are thawing out, the old, familiar warmth creeping back to his hand. "Sorry about what I said."

Jongdae reaches out, giving Minseok's cheek a light punch. Minseok winces, but it's mostly for show. Jongdae knows that and capitalizes on it, goes on to pinch the tip of Minseok's nose.

"Don't apologize to me. Apologize to yourself." He nudges Minseok in his side, then adds, "You've been missing a lot since you started living in that cave of yours. Don't you think it's time you got out of it once and for all?"

Minseok leans back, considering, and chuckles. "But it's warm and cozy there."

Jongdae growls. "Warm and cozy won't make the cut, hyung. I'm gonna drag your sorry ass out if you stay there much longer."

Minseok looks around for an audience. Sehun has taken it upon himself to assist people using the machines to make up for the Zumba classes he won't be holding in the upcoming days. There's nothing but the low, almost inaudible thrumming of the water dispenser breaking the silence. They're alone, and maybe Minseok can risk just a few minutes of surrender and lean into Jongdae's touch, submit to the need for warmth.

"Carry me," he singsongs. He moves closer, resting his head against Jongdae's own, then says, "Jongdae-yah, come on, carry hyung–"

"Hyung, I thought I wouldn't have to drag your sorry ass out right now but–" Minseok slips his arm around Jongdae's own, hooking their arms together, then nuzzles Jongdae's shoulder. Jongdae makes a small squirm, shrill enough to make Minseok wince, but he doesn't let go. He stays there even if Jongdae threatens to wave his arm around, make Minseok dizzy with the sudden movement. He stays and gives in to the pressing need for someone to lean on.

The sound of footsteps draws closer to the door and Jongdae hums. "Get up, hyung. If Sehun sees this, he'll demand cuddling time from you," Jongdae says, a peculiar lilt in his voice. Minseok holds onto that, too, grabs that funny note and clutches it close to chest for the rainy days to come.

☄

Minseok isn't the most skilled person when it comes to carrying out social obligations. The most socialization he's done is keeping in touch through KKT – which he wouldn't have gotten if Baekhyun hadn't snatched his phone from his hands and downloaded the application on it – and even that he still hasn't fully gotten used to. Replying to Jongdae and Sehun's pleas for help is almost a habit now; keeping in touch with Joonmyun and sending stickers, that's something he's still working on. He gets a bit too chatty sometimes, when he hasn't talked to Joonmyun in a while, but those are just bursts of activity. Joonmyun is almost always the one who initiates, asking, How's everyone there? Is Sehun eating properly? Yixing says he misses the kid. Has Jongdae been getting any rest? Has he finally gotten the balls to ask Li Yin-noona out?

No :( Minseok types all too quickly, before Jongdae can register the message he's reading.

He feels a familiar weight on his shoulder, and then a sharp pain when Jongdae presses down on him with his chin a bit too hard. "Hey, I tried, okay?" Jongdae argues, and Minseok shrugs but is careful not to shake Jongdae up so much. He types a follow up, then, tells Joonmyun, He says he tried but she just doesn't like him, then goes through his stickers to send one with the character holding up an L sign to his forehead. Jongdae jabs him in his side and sits up straight again only to deal more damage – a light punch on the arm, his torso, his lap. He soaks them up, everything Jongdae has to offer. Joonmyun's priceless reply, a stream of hahaha's, is worth all the pain.

Time ticks by too fast and, the next thing Minseok knows, he's punching out of the gym and waving over his back. "Remember to eat," he tells the two. To Sehun in particular, "You have an excuse to not clean up. Go home early, kid." Sehun offers a toothy grin in reply, then walks to the other side of the counter to shuffle some papers into an envelope. For all of Sehun's lack of focus in the morning or laziness when Jongdae asks him to clean the front desk, he still knows how to help out and when to go the extra mile. He'd gone to Starbucks earlier to fetch Minseok his staple coffee order, after all. Granted, he wanted to get his weird Starbucks drink, as well, but Minseok zeroes in on the mere thought and the effort – those have always been Sehun's charm point.

On my way to Garosu-gil, he texts Kyungsoo. See you :)

Every visit to this lane brings him back to five, six years ago when Joonmyun still had time to go out for a couple of drinks or even for dinner. That was two years before EXO's debut, but even then Joonmyun had been swamped with work. More like he chose to bury himself in work and not go home on particular days – Chuseok, Christmas, New Year's. His parents' wedding anniversary, the day his brother left to be freed from their parents' clutches and moved to Europe for good. They spent all those days here, and the first round of drinks would always be on Joonmyun. Minseok and Jongdae took turns paying for the second and third round, if any. The two were lightweights; 50% of the time, Minseok ended up taking his sweet time finishing the soju Joonmyun and Jongdae weren't able to drink because they were going to pay for it, anyway.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he steps to the side to check his message. Cork for Turtle okay with you, hyung? He looks up, then, grinning when he meets Kyungsoo's gaze across the road.

He bites the inside of his cheek and replies, anyway, saying, Sounds good :)

The last time Minseok had a meal in Cork for Turtle was on the second year anniversary of Jongdae's gym. They were ass drunk then after having two rounds of shots at Hello Bar, and Jongdae was craving something sweet. So they thought, hey, this is convenient, and entered the place. Joonmyun bought an entire box of cupcakes because they looked cute. Jongdae went on to buy wasabi latte even if he'd reiterated, for the third time, that he wanted something sweet to eat. They spent a good two hours there putting icing on each other's faces, but they ate the cupcakes anyway. It is, to date, still one of their craziest drinking nights in Gangnam. The ones that Minseok barely has any recollection of were all spent in Itaewon or Hongdae. When you're younger, it's easier to live with hangovers.

"Wow. New interiors," Minseok mumbles when they get inside.

"Thought you didn't go here often," Kyungsoo replies, falling in step with him as they head to the second floor.

"Been here once. My friend comes here often for takeout." He steps to his side, letting Kyungsoo walk ahead. Kyungsoo blinks at him for a while, then gives him a curt nod when he doesn't budge. "He loves the wasabi latter."

"I'll stick to my espresso con panna, thanks," Kyungsoo says. He chuckles, then, and cranes his neck. He begins to walk to the table close to the wine cellar. "Someone's in my spot."

"So you come here often."

"Only when Ilsandong bores me. I mean–" Kyungso worries his bottom lip, the corners of his mouth tugging up, then down, then up again, like he isn't so settled with taking a seat other than his usual working area. "It's a quiet place, Ilsan. There aren't much people to watch. Gangnam, however–"

"Is crowded. Packed with all sorts of people." Minseok bows at the lady who hands them the menu. He orders their brunch special, and he catches the curious glance Kyungsoo casts at him. "I don't feel like trying something new."

"You should try their walnut cake. Really good," Kyungsoo mentions. He turns to the lady, then, and places his order, then asks for two slices of walnut cake. Minseok cocks an eyebrow at him. "It's really good."

Minseok shakes his head and leans back, but remembers to take the handkerchief out of his pocket. Once the lady has left, he dangles it in front of Kyungsoo, then takes it back to clutch it close to his chest. "Because you're forcing me to eat walnut cake and because you don't know how to respect your elders."

"I do, hyung, Kyungsoo says in reply, a teeth-baring smile stretching at the corners of his lips. The lighting here is dim, lends just enough light to illuminate the important details of Kyungsoo's face – the mound of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, his short eyelashes where light catches and stays. The wicked dip on his top lip, and the gentle swell of his bottom lip.

The light here is too yellow. It isn't supposed to be flattering, but the warm glow softens all of Kyungsoo's hard angles, eases the crease his eyebrows usually make. And it offers some soft of courage to Minseok, too, that he doesn't think twice before biting his lower lip and sucking it in. He doesn't know what it means yet. He doesn't think about it too much. The big, immovable lump in his throat is a force strong enough to choke all of his coherent throughs, prevent them from slipping from his lips.

"Explain," he says after a while, feeling his throat relax. He unfolds the handkerchief and lays it down on his side of the table, but facing Kyungsoo. "And explain why the paint doesn't stink unlike the usual acrylic ones."

Kyungsoo's eyebrows twitch, but it's a good twitch. It pulls up at Kyungsoo's eyelids, rids his features of the tired, weary look he normally fashions. The corners of his mouth lift further up. "It's paint for children. From the makers Play-Doh," Kyungsoo answers. He leans in, then, eyelids dropping as he rests his chin on his clasped hands. Light gives his features a nice, softer contour. Minseok takes a sip of his water. "Gonna buy that brand again. It really does not smudge."

Minseok chuckles. "So you're saying that's the only reason why it doesn't smudge?"

"The technique's hard to explain," Kyungsoo reasons out, lips tugging down in a frown. Or pursing, both his top and bottom lip jutted out and moving to the left and right in healthy intervals. It makes Kyungsoo look three years younger, or like he's a kid in preschool wondering how burnt sienna is different from 'red orange'. It's just a fucking name. "I mean, technically, the whole thing is smudge art. It's just– For these slightly thicker lines here–" He leans closer, pinching his pinky with his thumb and ring finger, then scores along the area but maintains a few good centimeters between his hand and the material. "This is how I hold my makeshift brush. It helps me control the… pressure sensitivity of the stroke."

"This is like one of those speed-sketch things on Youtube," MInseok says, laughing.

"You're making fun of my technique, hyung?"

"No, no. It's just that–" He presses his lips to the back of his hand to keep himself from making any more noise, but it's difficult. Kyungsoo sounds affronted, what with the sudden lilt in his voice, but he doesn't look like it. The light cock of the eyebrow is not intimidating at all, the way his lips are quirked up make him look as if he's choosing between a smile and a scowl, which will communicate his message better, which will get Minseok hooked on the demonstration. "Please, go on. I just find it really… cute when you get really passionate about explaining your art."

Like that one time, during the exhibit, when Kyungsoo found his arms caught up in elaborate gestures that he can normally contain in a tilt of the head. And then that time in Apartmento, when Kyungsoo was explaining to Minseok how artists salvage paintings that would have otherwise been ruined, how he raved about the pressure of each stroke and the proper use of washes and layers of colors. Like now, this exact moment, where Kyungsoo is leaning in, hand crawling closer to where Minseok's hand is.

"I'm not cute," Kyungsoo grumbles. He leans back, then frowns. "I'm not selling my art to anyone who thinks I'm cute."

Right, they've got a transaction to iron out. Minseok hasn't forgotten, but he has shoved it to the deepest part of his mind, at the very back where he can wait for his system to flush it out and make room for Kyungsoo, instead. "About that painting–"

"The Nightwalker," Kyungsoo interrupts. He licks his bottom lip. "The painting is called 'The Nightwalker'."

"Lovely," Minseok says. He beams at Kyungsoo, whose eyes flicker with something Minseok doesn't catch. It's too fast – he only blinked, and then it was gone. But he knows it's there, somewhere, in Kyungsoo's eyes, hidden beneath the many layers of paint. He vows to carve it in his memory the next time he catches it. "It's a fitting name." A loud exhale, and then, "So, the pressure sensitivity?"

"Pressure sensitivity?"

"That you applied on this painting." Minseok taps a finger on the part of the fabric that isn't touched. He traces a line along the curve of the dancer's body, then, and lets his finger hover. "This stroke's too fine for a brush that thick."

Kyungsoo's eyes light up with a familiar glimmer. Minseok has seen this before, somewhere. He just can't remember where.

"After dinner," Kyungsoo says as he cocks his head in the direction of the server. The serving for the New Orleans brunch has gotten bigger. He can't finish this alone. "I'll explain everything after dinner."

☄

"Everything I know about dancing, I learned from So You Think You Can Dance," Kyungsoo confesses. He takes a generous sip of his espresso con panna, then continues, "And the performance art shows I've gone to. So yes, I do suck at foreshortening."

Minseok flips the painting so that it's facing him. The line of movement is good, helps the viewer appreciate the curve of the body as the ballerina twists her torso and lifts her left leg, but something about the proportion of the part throws him off. It's not something he can determine at the onset, but he sees it there, when he leans closer to assess the painting. "More shadows on this part, and then maybe more highlights here," he says, then traces a small arc along one side of the ballerina's shoulders. "Because the light's coming from this direction, but the movement makes it look like the light in the room where the ballerina's dancing is well-distributed."

"Which isn't true," Kyungsoo adds. He moves his cup of coffee to the other side of the table. "I guess I could… When I transfer this to canvas…"

"You're really planning to complete this?"

Kyungsoo chuckles, eyebrows furrowed a little like Minseok is asking the most stupid question. "I won't be able to sleep at night if I just throw this into the basket. Artists… We don't work that way, hyung."

Minseok chokes on his Americano and swallows hard. There's an ounce of truth to it. Even when he was younger, he couldn't find it in his heart to cut his practice short smack in the middle of a song. It's like telling the dancer to shut up, telling the artist to stop what he's doing because it will never be good enough. And no artist wants to be told that. So Minseok had demanded for a bit of respect then, didn't stop dancing until the music stopped. Then he was greeted by Jongdae's applause, then their dance teacher's, and then a few more people. The memory of his little presentation back then is so fresh in his mind that he can recount the details of that particular memory without even thinking twice.

A second skin, that's dancing for him. A second skin he was forced to shed following the accident that took his parents' lives.

"Yeah," he says after a while. Artists don't just drop projects because they're bad or ugly or simply won't work out anymore. There's probably a better way to approach the piece of art, the dance, the performance. "What's holding you back, then?"

Kyungsoo leans back, tearing his gaze from Minseok. His eyes haven't quite lost their glimmer yet, but he looks tired. The magic that had once lightened the dark circles under his eyes are gone, but there's still a small smile on his lips. His eyes are unfocused; his eyebrows are relaxed. It's as if Kyungsoo has slipped into a trance and that he isn't giving Minseok a chance but to deal with this. His features crack, though, when he musters soft laughter. "I need a reference. This isn't something I'm familiar with."

Kyungsoo presses his fingers together and meets Minseok in the eye. "I need to see the real thing with my eyes. I don't want to mess with people's minds and paint something that isn't real."

Minseok presses his lips thinly together and nods. Kyungsoo hums, then asks, "Didn't you say you danced before? Do you… Do you know ballet, hyung?"

The walnut cake in front of him hasn't been touched yet. He's still so full from the brunch medley he'd ordered, even drinking black coffee isn't doing anything to help make space in his stomach. It seems like the perfect time to stuff his mouth with something though, so he takes a piece, albeit a bit bigger than he'd intended, and slips it between his lips. He raises both eyebrows, hoping Kyungsoo will get the message, but Kyungsoo's lips still hang parted in a question. How do you tell someone, though, that you don't dance anymore because you don't want to be reminded of the day dance took your family away from you? How do you tell a stranger about that? How do you tell him that it's been close to twenty years and yet you haven't gotten over it yet, the pain of looking back on that day and thinking you could've told your parents to not rush to the venue? I dance at the end, umma, there's no need to rush. You don't have to– How do you make a stranger understand?

"Yeah, I did," Minseok says between light chews and gulps. He drinks half a glass of water, then looks up at Kyungsoo. "Years ago. When I was a kid."

"But you don't just… outgrow it. It's like a–"

"Second skin," Minseok finishes, at the same time that Kyungsoo says it, voice dropping to a whisper. "There's a way to get rid of it. You just have to… really set your mind on it. Stay away from everything that reminds you of that old skin." He presses his knuckles down on the neck, tracing the gentle slope, and Kyungsoo follows the movement with his gaze. "And then you forget it. It takes a while, but it can be done."

"That's sad," Kyungsoo says, earnest. Minseok follows Kyungsoo's eyes, the gaze traveling further south to settle on Minseok's collarbones. Minseok gulps without meaning to. "Did something–" He laughs a little. "Never mind."

Minseok tilts his head to the side. "Thanks for not prying," he says, smiling a little. Kyungsoo rolls his eyes as if saying, really now, hyung, do I have a choice? Truth be told, Kyungsoo does. He can bug Minseok until Minseok relents. He can make Minseok take one shot of soju after another until his lips feel loose again and all of his muscles relax. Sometimes, it's easier to share a part of your past with a stranger because that person doesn't have any right to pass judgment on you. Kyungsoo has no right, if Minseok ever decides to spill, to raise an eyebrow at him and call him stupid for living in the rotten shell of that accident two decades ago. Kyungsoo wasn't there to pull Minseok out of his slump – that was Jongdae's job. He wasn't there to get Minseok back on his feet and introduce him to a new hobby that he could force himself to turn into a passion – that was Joonmyun's job. He wasn't there, and probably never will be, to take care of Minyoung when Minyoung was always screaming and asking, Where's umma? Where's appa? Who am I? Why am I here?

That should've been Minseok's job. He did his part. He could've done more.

"Can you…" Kyungsoo drums his fingers on the table. "Can you talk me through a routine, though? Just short descriptions. I can work with those." Kyungsoo closer his eyes, then bobs his head to some song Minseok can't hear. It isn't to the rhythm of the music in Cork for Turtle. It isn't the same beat Kyungsoo is moving his fingers to. It's a slower tune, and Kyungsoo tilts his head from side to side like he's picturing a dance in his milk. A waltz, Minseok corrects himself, or maybe tango. Kyungsoo throws his head back, lips falling open, and the right corner of his mouth tugs up in a small, almost indiscernible smile.

Shit, Minseok thinks. This is the magic trick, and he's just volunteered to be Kyungsoo's assistant. Kyungsoo's reeling him in with the allure of his swaying, the way he leans back and exposes the column of his neck, the way he smiles through this trance and sucks in his bottom lip and just keeps dancing and dancing and dancing. And Minseok should look away, but he can't. He's trapped. He's signed the contract and he can't get out this spell. He's off-track and he can't get back inside the lines he's drawn for himself.

"Imagine the ballerina taking five steps forward," Minseok whispers, and Kyungsoo's swaying comes to a halt. "Imagine her moving her left foot first, then her right, and the three quick steps. Imagine her pushing herself off the ground when she jumps, legs stretching open."

Kyungsoo hums and the music becomes clearer now. Minseok still can't pinpoint the title, though. Maybe he can ask Kyungsoo about it.

"Imagine her running on tiptoe and facing the crowd," Minseok adds. The gentle bob of Kyungsoo's head urges him to go on.

"Imagine her spinning, faster with every turn. Imagine her not wanting to stop."

☄

At the cusp of Monday and Tuesday, Minseok finds himself walking to Han River with Kyungsoo.

"Fucking cold," Kyungsoo mumbles under his breath, but doesn't slow down walking. It's his idea to go out here, after all, at such a late hour. Never mind that Minseok has an early morning yoga class tomorrow – it's not as if he's done this in a while, anyway. The cool midnight air tickles his skin, makes the hair at the back of his neck stand. He takes a deep breath and spreads his arms, tilts his face up. Funny how living in Apgeujong takes away the midnight magic of the river. Funny how the prospect of making Kyungsoo dance here, in the open street along the Han, can restore the same brand of magic in a blink of an eye.

"You should warm up," Minseok says. He digs his hands in his pockets and hops from one colored tile to another. "You don't want to get any muscle pains in the morning."

"I don't have work in the morning. I can sleep in," Kyungsoo mumbles. He jogs in place, nonetheless, cursing under his breath every so often. "Okay, that definitely feels better."

Minseok stretches his arms over his head, suddenly regretting not bringing gloves when the wind blows. He wiggles his fingers in the air.

The last time he went to the Han was just before the start of EXO's tour. Joonmyun was feeling a bit nostalgic then, knowing that he was going to be flying from one country to another the entire year, moving further away from home. He was humming one of EXO's debut songs, filling the white noise, and Minseok hadn't felt so empty and cold. Joonmyun took his hand in his and started walking in a big circle and, the next thing Minseok knew, they were picking up speed.

"Promise me you'll pick up dancing again?" Joonmyun had asked then. Minseok took a deep breath. His chest felt so full and tight and it was probably the air pressure at work. So he said, with a big smile even, "Sure." He promised Joonmyun that time that he'd try to go back to dancing, and Joonmyun broke off from the circle and started doing his little happy dance that made him look like he was suffering from cramps in his legs.

"Don't laugh at me if I screw up," Kyungsoo says now, teeth chattering in the cold. It's always much colder near the Han. Minseok should have known better than to bravely head out here without proper gear. "Seriously, hyung, I don't know a thing about real dancing. I haven't danced since college P.E. class."

"You and I, both," Minseok admits. He twists his torso and bends his knees, then remembers he won't be the one doing the dancing. He'll just be directing from the sidelines, not taking center stage. Stop that, he tells a voice in his mind. Stop trying to get back into your second skin.

Kyungsoo clenches and unclenches his fists, then stands in front of Minseok, spine snapping straight. His eyes are focused, and light from the lamppost nearby catches on the small dip where his eyebrows meet. "I'm ready," Kyungsoo announces. He clears his throat and meets Minseok in the eye. "Anytime you're ready, hyung."

Minseok takes a step forward, tilting his head to the side as he rests his hands on Kyungsoo's shoulders.

In this light, out here in the open space near the Han, Kyungsoo looks much smaller, like the darkness can eat him up and swallow him whole. It doesn't help that he's wearing a thick black coat, or that his hair is the darkest shade possible. Only his eyes glimmer here, and then the streaks of light breathing life into his hair. Minseok takes a minute to appreciate the way light falls on Kyungsoo's features, takes time to watch pay close attention to the gentle curves of Kyungsoo's face and the way warm light always, always, always softens his features. His cheeks are a light shade of pink, light catching on the swell of flesh. Kyungsoo's nose twitches, all of a sudden, and his lips quirk up. Light reaches it, too, the corners of his lips, the sides, the underside of Kyungsoo's cheeks when Kyungsoo can't decide just yet whether he should go with a smile or a frown.

"Hyung?" Kyungsoo asks, voice so faint he could be breathing. Minseok doesn't lean closer, though, takes a step back and a deep breath.

"Close your eyes," Minseok begins. There's a question in the way Kyungsoo furrows his eyebrows, but he doesn't say a thing. "Just close your eyes and do as I tell you."

Kyungsoo isn't made for classical ballet, Minseok thinks. Sehun would do better in that department – Sehun moves with fluid grace that he doesn't possess when carrying out his day-to-day duties. What would suit Kyungsoo, though, is street dance. Not the 'isolation thing' that he mentioned before, but your classic street dance with the pops and locks and a natural grit to the movement. So Minseok moves closer again, moving Kyungsoo by the shoulders, tucking in one side when he pushes it down, the popping it out as he pushes Kyungsoo's arm back, then out. "That suits you better. Not ballet," he whispers, coughing when the wind blows again, and Kyungsoo makes an indiscernible sound of protest.

Kyungsoo's lips turn down in a frown. It looks funny from this distance, like Kyungsoo's a character from some manhwa Minseok has seen Baekhyun reading before. "I'm painting a ballerina, hyung. You promised to teach me."

"Fine, fine. Ballet, it is." He takes out his phone and steps back again, giving Kyungsoo space. "Swing your right leg forward, bring it down, then bend your knees as you move forward."

Kyungsoo does as he is told, eyebrows furrowing even more. This isn't apprehension, Minseok notes – this is confusion. If Kyungsoo could speak his mind at this very moment, he's probably be saying, what the fuck are you making me do, hyung?, but he doesn't say anything, keeps his lips pressed thinly together as he carries out every instruction Minseok gives him. His body jerks a little everytime the wind blows, each repetition harder than the previous, but that doesn't deter him from moving around. He runs on tiptoe without any direction in mind when Minseok tells him to do so, and Minseok has to run after him to make sure he doesn't accidentally lead himself to the river. He spins on one foot when Minseok says, "Okay, now use your other foot to turn you around– Ah, that's great! Okay, just keep at it. Keep spinning–" And soon Kyungsoo develops his own little routine, a weird variation of ballet that Minseok hasn't quite seen before. It isn't polished, nor is it graceful in any way, but Kyungsoo does the most beautiful of pirouettes when he spins and spins and always lands at his starting point, like he's got this movement memorized like the back of his hand.

Like he's made for this, made to do this – to follow Minseok's instructions and dance in front of him, for him.

Minseok takes a deep breath, then steadies his hand before pressing the 'stop' button. He knows what will lull him to sleep tonight.

"What's next, hyung?" Kyungsoo calls out, voice louder than the usual. "Hyung?"

Minseok shakes his hand and walks over, clasping a hand over Kyungsoo's mouth when he attempts to call Minseok again.

"Hyung, wha–"

"Ssh. You can open your eyes now," Minseok whispers. He feels the light shiver of Kyungsoo's body against his own, and only then does he realize that they're pressed so close to each other – back to chest, Kyungsoo's lips on his palm. He feels his fingers twitch, and he quickly drops his hands to his side in time for Kyungsoo to turn around. Kyungsoo is squinting, but his lips are tugged up to a smile that bares all of his teeth and gives Minseok a peek of his gums. Cute, little pink gums, Minseok says in his mind, because Kyungsoo would probably punch him in the gut if he voiced that out.

"How did I do?" Kyungsoo asks, grinning. He bites his bottom lip, slips his tongue between his lips, then exhales. "Was it good?"

Minseok scrunches his nose when he feels Kyungsoo's breath on his skin. It tickles, and his chest feels so full with something he can't quite pinpoint yet, and he's not even running around in a circle with Kyungsoo. He's just here, standing in front of Kyungsoo, the tips of their toes a good five, six inches apart, a distance big enough that Minseok has to lean in if wants to examine Kyungsoo some more, but short enough if he wants space to breathe. So he takes a step back and holds two thumbs up, hoping Kyungsoo will get the message. The corners of Kyungsoo's eyes crinkle and a bigger grin stretches his lips wide open, and Minseok gulps hard. Swallows the thick lump in this his throat. Tries to fight the equally big smile that is pulling so hard at the corners of his mouth that the stretch stings.

Kyungsoo spins on one foot again, and again, and again, and screams into the night, a sound of victory that rivals the heavy thumping in Minseok's chest. When Kyungsoo grabs him by his wrists for a victory dance, he only hesitates for a second, but allows Kyungsoo to pull him in.

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